Four years ago, my marriage came to an end. Not after shouting matches or long fights, but in one quiet instant that I recall too well — opening the bedroom door early and finding my husband with another woman. No explanations. No second chances. I packed a bag, filed for divorce, and never looked back. By that time, my son was already grown. David was 22, living independently, trying to remain neutral in a situation no child should be forced into. I never asked him to pick a side. I simply moved on. Or at least I believed I had. A year later, David relocated to New York for work. We kept in touch — calls, holidays, short visits. He established a good life there. I rebuilt mine here. Time softened the hurt. The past stayed where it belonged. Then, last month, David phoned me, his voice unusually nervous. “Mom,” he said, “I want you to come to New York. I’m throwing a small engagement party. I want you there.”
I smiled, genuinely happy for him. He hadn’t mentioned anyone serious before, and I didn’t press. If he was ready, I trusted him. The evening of the party, his apartment buzzed — laughter, music, glasses clinking. David saw me as soon as I walked in and hurried over. “You’re here,” he said, hugging me tightly. “I’m so glad.” Then he took my hand. “Come meet her,” he said. We crossed the room. A woman turned toward us, smiling. And the instant our eyes met, the room seemed to tilt. Because I knew that face. I had seen it before — four years earlier, in my bedroom. And before I could stop myself, before thought could catch up, I did the one thing no one at that party expected me to do. “Mom — what are you doing?!” David shouted.